


The Fingers Can't Help But Pick

by ineverwritebutwhatever



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Author it terrified of the corruption but wrote this whole thing anyways, Blood, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Character Study, Don't read if you dont want to feel horribly itchy., I tagged it as teen but this is magnus archives horror stuff so, Itching, Jane Prentiss - Freeform, Jane prentiss might be the most terrifying but shes also the most interesting, Other, Scratching, Weird, author projects phobias and life experiences on fear avatar, listen, please read the tags, self harm behaviors, so I'm just gonna give that experience to jane, worms in your hair is a real thing my mom said to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineverwritebutwhatever/pseuds/ineverwritebutwhatever
Summary: Jane Prentiss had always felt it, nestled deeper even than her bones was the itch.The scratching was inevitable, so was the blood.(A character study of Jane Prentiss: The avatar I find both most interesting and horrifying)
Relationships: None
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	The Fingers Can't Help But Pick

Jane didn’t remember her childhood all too well. She’d heard that that's how it was. Life was about the present, and memories tended to become vague. No matter what, they would all fade. 

So really when it came to how things happened there were only ever vague guesses. Your brain is exceptional at filling in the blanks. It doesn’t like blanks. Doesn’t like holes.

The itch was no exception to that rule. When she looked back it seemed it had always been there. It had been more present in her life than anything else, and she wondered if she hadn’t just been born with it, as much a part of her as her teeth, and nails. Growing from somewhere within.

So it seemed that if the itch hadd always been there, then the reverse would also be true. It would always be there.

_

Her mom had taken her to doctors when she noticed it. She could never understand the itch, didn’t feel the pull. Like her fingers flew on strings attached to itching skin. She didn’t understand the blood, or why she wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

It was always the same story though. Doctors who said there was nothing wrong, simply psychosomatic. A symptom of too much stress. Sometimes they whispered to her mom about early onset mental disorders when they didn’t think she was listening. The itching probably wouldn’t be anything to worry about, until she was older and suddenly it would be.

The dermatologist said her skin was a little dry. That dry skin could lead to a certain level of itchiness. Some lotion, more thorough grooming habits, a humidifier when it was dry, perhaps even an allergy to the detergent. They also said she shouldn’t pick at herself so much. It would lead to scarring, and if incorrectly cleaned and constantly reopened, infection. But, no, really she was fine. Nothing to worry about.

There was even a brain scan at one point. Her brain looked fine. Nothing to worry about.

No matter what anyone said though, the itch wouldnt go away. It had always been there. There was no reason for it. Or if there was it was inborn. 

But the mind wants a reason for things. It sees blank spaces and wants more than anything to fill them. 

_

Trying to look back there were moments of course that stood out. 

Once someone had said she was full of holes, and it had rung so true that even in the dark she could swear she could see them. The horrible yawning holes in her skin. She desperately wished there was something to fill them. They were so empty. They reached right to the bone. Her fingers could never get deep enough into them. 

At summer camp she had been itching her arms. Fingernails feeling horribly insufficient when she tried to scratch through her hoodie. Her fingers instead finding bare skin on her neck, and claiming it. Her mom had smacked her hand away. She’d said that they would think she had bugs on her if she itched so furiously. 

Another was when she was told there were worms in her hair. She had always had the urge to pick, to pull, to inspect, and scratch. But nothing could calm the itch. Nothing really seemed right, and she cycled through every repetitive motion she could to try and find relief from that damned itch.

So she chewed her hair. It didn’t help persay, but she liked the way it felt on her tongue and lips. It was soothing to a child who knew they shouldn’t pick at their skin, but had to do something. Her mother didn’t like it. Told her to stop. But she didn’t. Couldn’t seem to, how could she when there was so little that soothed her?

Her mother grabbed her wrist and told her to stop.

Why?

Because there are worms in your hair.

She’d stopped. Hadn’t cried, hadn’t reacted, just took her hair out of her mouth. 

That night she dreamt about it. 

Her mother's words spoke to something true within her. It had rung out as a truth of the universal kind. Where when you find it out, everything slots into place. Like finding out about gravity, and having context to everything that you’d simply taken for granted. She didn’t doubt the truth of those words for even an instant.

There were worms in her hair.

It didn’t stop her for good though. She still wanted to touch her hair. It was longer than she wanted it to be, and great for fiddling with when the itch was manageable. She couldn’t stop.

The only difference was that now it wasn’t soothing. The stress that drew her to it in the first place could now only build upon itself. Compounding with the fear of worms in her hair as it built on itself.

If there were worms in her hair, then surely they had to already be inside her.

In her scalp. 

In her stomach. 

In her hair.

It was already too late. It wouldn’t make a difference anymore if she chewed on the ends of her hair.

She could remember that was when she added her scalp to the list of things she had to pick at. Her fingers had more places to be pulled to by the itch.

But even looking back she knew that these memories weren’t the reason for it all. They were a symptom of the itch not the cause of it.

_

So she picked, and scratched, and bled. She couldn’t help it, her fingers had a mind of their own, and she often didn’t even notice what was happening until there was blood under her nails. She couldn’t help it. 

It was her first routine. Before she even knew the word, she knew the dance she did for the itch.

She would wake up, and inspect herself, check over every inch for blemishes, and if there weren’t any to find then she would create them. Squeezing anything that wasn’t smooth until it popped or bled.

Throughout the day she would continue to itch, and disinfect, at work there were band aids she would pick at. It felt nice to feed the itch.

Because you see, there is a truth about itching that not many know. She knew because she had a lifetime to learn it.

The truth is that the sensation of itching is only pain distilled. It’s the same feeling at its core, but small or spread out. That is why healing wounds itch so badly. That is why scabs, sunburns, bruises, and eyes itch. Because it hurts.

She liked to scratch until it hurt. Then she could pull out the truth of the feeling. It felt like unmasking the truth of her life. Because the itch was nestled at the core of her being. She did not itch she hurt. She was injured and if she did not clean all her wounds, they would fester.

At night she would lay awake, trying to ignore it long enough to sleep. Eventually though she would have to throw off the blankets, and check again. Check the bed, and her hair, and her skin.

So everyday was that. Life with a background of scratching.

Scabs, and blemishes called to her like a sweet siren song. Skin demanded to be inspected, she swore if she didn’t check there would be bugs sticking out. The scabs sometimes felt like the beginnings of a head poking out of her skin, and she would have to dig, to keep digging.

There was only ever blood.

But still she checked. It wasn’t only blemishes she was checking for. Her hair could be infested before she knew it. Only passing too close by a stranger could result in lice living in her hair. Walking in the grass could put parasites in her feet. Eating the wrong thing would put worms in her gut.

It consumed her, and then it hadn’t. 

Thinking back now she wonders though about the period of time when she was fine. There were meds. They helped. They also did things she didn’t like though. But she had friends. She called herself a witch, wore long skirts, and drank wine in the park when there were concerts. She wonders who that was. Looking back now her brain cannot fill in the blanks.

Did the meds make her that way? Or does the itching make her the way she is now?

She doesn’t know. 

_

It was in her new flat that she’d first heard the singing.

She’d been alone. A roommate had moved on, and she was living on her own for the first time in her life. There had always been someone there before, and now her mother was gone. It was just her in that house. She had been lonely.

The itching had been worse too. Like her skin had never scarred and healed in the first place.

She’d been squeezing a blemish on her shoulder when she’d felt herself pulled to something that wasn’t her own skin for the first time in her life. Fingers pausing and pulling away, the way they never had before.

It was so faint that she wasn’t sure if she’d even really heard it. The song that called to her itch. But she had, and it only got louder.

She recognized it too. Something nestled deep inside her sang back. 

Everyday it got louder. Soon she was humming it to herself as she picked. The blood sang it better than she could, and she wanted to sing it right. She felt like it did something nice, it echoed in the holes in her skin that only she could see. Resonated with her bones. Vibrated through her blood. The singing was so close. And she knew and loved every single word.

The song didn’t fit right in her throat though, it just didn’t sound right, and the song only got louder. And she could only sing it so loud the way that she was.

She woke up crying when she realised that she wouldn’t be able to sing it right the way she was. The holes in her skin would have to be opened to allow the song in.

That was the first time she went to the attic. The first time she saw the source of the song. She wanted to run. 

She needed to run, but she knelt.

It was different from when her mom tried to teach her about religion as a child. Hours spent kneeling and praying, and learning songs. Hours spent holding back on the urge to itch. Praying for it to go away.

This was different though. When she knelt, and sang, they answered back.

There are holes in her skin, and now everyone can see them.

There are worms in her hair.

She sings, and they love her in their way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow you got through all that! Good job!  
> Shoot me a comment with your thoughts! I honestly would never have read this, even though I wrote it so I am genuinely curious about any thoughts ya had!  
> As always comments and kudos are all very appreciated!


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